


Performance Art

by forthegreatergood



Series: Punctuated Equilibrium [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:00:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthegreatergood/pseuds/forthegreatergood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark's day job affords an unexpected opportunity to get closer to Bruce.</p>
<hr/><p>Clark fiddled nervously with his tie and resisted the urge to clear his throat.  This had seemed like a marginally less-awful idea when he’d first gotten the assignment.  Of course, that had been <i>then</i>, in Perry’s office, safely ensconced in the heart of Metropolis, with Lois backing him up.  </p>
<p><i>Now</i>, gliding through Gotham in the back of a limo with Bruce giving him a frankly appraising once-over, he found himself clutching his notebook like a shield and trying to remember the exact name of the Wayne Enterprises division suspected of malfeasance.  Clark swallowed.  An eidetic memory and the ability to read his notes through the pad’s cover were, at the moment, no match whatsoever for the cheshire grin on Bruce’s face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Performance Art

**Author's Note:**

> All characters property of DC Comics and/or their respective affiliates.
> 
> Not beta-read. Please post any noticed errors in the comments, and they'll get fixed.

Clark fiddled nervously with his tie and resisted the urge to clear his throat. This had seemed like a marginally less-awful idea when he’d first gotten the assignment. Of course, that had been _then_ , in Perry’s office, safely ensconced in the heart of Metropolis, with Lois backing him up. 

_Now_ , gliding through Gotham in the back of a limo with Bruce giving him a frankly appraising once-over, he found himself clutching his notebook like a shield and trying to remember the exact name of the Wayne Enterprises division suspected of malfeasance. Clark swallowed. An eidetic memory and the ability to read his notes through the pad’s cover were, at the moment, no match whatsoever for the cheshire grin on Bruce’s face. 

What was it Lois had called him? Sex in a suit? It was difficult to remember precisely why he hadn’t seen it at the time. Or why he’d never noticed how Bruce’s public-persona clothes were cut to make him seem slimmer and more...inviting. Or why he’d overlooked the way Bruce always left one too many buttons undone when he wasn’t wearing a tie, showing a little too much skin to be professional but not quite enough to look openly debauched. Or why he’d found the brazenness with which Bruce watched people notice it all off-putting instead of promising. It would be so simple to push him back, lean up against him, nudge his knees apart…

Bruce sprawled against the seat and poured a double shot of what Clark’s acute sense of smell told him was water from a Grey Goose bottle. He offered Clark a glass with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a tilt of the bottle, the gesture pure theater.

“Uh, no thanks. I’m, uh, on the job,” Clark said hoarsely. He cleared his throat and blushed furiously, intensely mindful of the driver. There was something electric about role-playing like this in front of a stranger, in public, that he couldn’t quite put his finger on but that nevertheless had his skin tingling and his mouth dry.

“Fair enough.” He slipped the decoy liquor back into built-in cabinet. “The compartment next to you has bottled water, if that’s more your speed, _Clark_.” He let the inappropriate informality hang in the air just a beat too long before almost purring, “May I call you Clark? It seems a little silly to stand on ceremony during an interview for a puff-piece.”

“I assure you, Mr. Wayne, the _Daily Planet_ doesn’t do puff-pieces,” he managed. 

He willed himself to stop blushing and tried to remember that it was utterly ridiculous to be distracted by how much of Bruce’s chest he could see when the man stretched his arms across the back of the seat and snorted with affected boredom. He’d seen him naked less than two weeks ago. He knew what he sounded like when he came. He’d lost track of how many times they’d saved each other’s lives. He shouldn’t be reduced to a stammering schoolboy on account of an extra inch of two of skin, even if it would be the easiest thing in the world to close the distance between them and run his tongue over it.

“No?” Bruce asked, his lips pursing. “I must have mixed up the packets my secretary put together for today’s interviews. You’re not interested in the fashion show the Wayne Foundation is putting on to raise money for rural education infrastructure in the developing world? Fahad Hussayn’s new line? It’s very _now _. Very globalized. You know--hip and modern, but traditional at the same time?”__

Clark thought it was a little unfair how Bruce managed to sound a bit put out and sullen and utterly, glacially _detached_ over a blatant lie while he was stuck wondering if there was a chance he’d get to tear that shirt off him the next time they were alone together.

“While I’m sure that’s a fascinating topic, I wanted to get your reaction to the accusations of illegal arms dealing and financial improprieties levied against your subsidiary, Vendell-Smythe-Kendricks?” he said, almost firmly enough to avoid a slight crack in his voice at the end. 

_Dammit,_ he thought. _I am never going to hear the end of this._

“Who?” Bruce asked, his face carefully vacant. 

He sipped his drink and casually hit the button to raise the partition, somehow making the gesture both a study in nonchalance and a blatant declaration of intent, the action of a man as unused to having to ask for what he wanted as he was to hearing the word ‘no.’ It should not, Clark thought, have been as hot as it was. Even when he wasn’t in costume, the Bruce he knew was a man who refused, permitted, or demanded. He was blunt, considered, precise. That Bruce didn’t flirt, and he certainly didn’t _seduce_. This version of him was a meticulous piece of performance art intended for public consumption. Except that now, in front of an audience of one, it was a meticulous piece of performance art intended for _his_ consumption. A sudden flash of something sardonic and challenging in those dark blue eyes, practically daring him to keep up, short-circuited any remaining journalistic instincts. Clark licked his lips and swallowed thickly.

“Vendell-Smythe-Kendricks,” he repeated. _Rumor has it that HR has dispatched a certain square-jawed, pointy-eared personification of vengeance to investigate. Comments?_

“Doesn’t ring a bell. It must be a new acquisition,” Bruce yawned. “In which case I’m sure the relevant auditing steps are being handled. I’m told our people are very efficient when it comes to things like that. Wayne Enterprises does its best to be a good corporate citizen.”

He punctuated the parroted PR line with a long, heavy-lidded glance that swept from Clark’s face to his thighs and back. His lips parted slightly, making Clark think about exactly how kissing him felt, and he took another sip of his drink. Clark blinked and stared back down at his notebook. Bruce’s utter self-possession had a distinctly different effect when it was paired with a loose-limbed, comfortable air of command and a warm smile. _Distinctly_ different. If he could just get out of this without sporting the second most unprofessional erection of his career, he was willing to call it a win. At least this time, he consoled himself, there was practically no way he could wind up trying to hide a hard-on from a Central European diplomat courtesy of the incredible competitive streak possessed by one Lois Lane.

“Let me guess, college football?” Bruce asked, all traces of disinterest gone.

“Uh, no, I haven’t covered the sports beat in years,” he said, frowning.

Bruce laughed and shook his head, baring his throat further. 

“Did you _play_ football in college,” he clarified, draining his glass. He let his eyes wander over Clark’s frame again, then met his eyes. “You have the physique for it.”

“Not since high school,” Clark answered stiffly. He’d have thought, from a strictly rational standpoint, that _knowing_ he could have the man in front of him would have made the need to do so less urgent rather than more. He wondered if he could persuade Bruce to come back to his hotel room after they were done pretending they didn’t know each other.

“Ah.” Bruce ran his tongue over his lips. “Pardon my reach.”

He leaned forward, retrieving a bottle of water and letting his hand brush Clark’s thigh. Clark inhaled sharply, and suddenly Bruce’s grin had a few more teeth in it.

“Have you been with the _Planet_ long?” he asked, not retreating. “I think I’d remember seeing eyes like yours before.”

Clark tried to hold still. A bad pothole--or just the slightest of superspeed jostles--would all but put Bruce in his lap. His cock thickened at the idea. He shook himself. They were still in public. In Gotham. In broad daylight. Maybe Bruce didn’t have a reputation to think about, but he did.

“Mr. Wayne!” It came out as almost a yelp when Bruce squeezed his thigh unexpectedly. He shifted back in his seat, trying to ignore the way his boxers were beginning to chafe and tighten.

“Please, call me Bruce.” He smoothed the lapel of Clark’s jacket, lowering his eyes for just a moment.

“The driver--”

“Is very discreet, and behind a pane of soundproof glass,” he interrupted placidly, edging closer.

“We’re in the middle of traffic!”

“Behind windows tinted too darkly to see in through,” he murmured, his lips brushing Clark’s ear. It was like getting caught in a riptide.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a terrible tease?” he gritted, squirming slightly as his cock strained against his fly.

Bruce plucked the notebook from his hand and tossed it aside before easing against him. 

“Does it feel like I’m teasing you?” he chuckled, his fingers settling on Clark’s belt.

“It feels like you’re ambushing me.”

“Well, turnabout’s fair play, isn’t it?” Bruce smirked. He leaned close, his breath a soft huff against Clark’s throat and his voice pitched too low to carry. “Unless, of course, you really _would_ like me to stop?”

Clark caught his wrist when he feinted at pulling his hand away, and his eyes narrowed. “Shall I take that as a ‘more, please,’ then?”

He touched Bruce’s face tentatively, tracing his thumb over his cheekbone and then down his jaw. Bruce turned his head and sucked Clark’s thumb into his mouth, running his tongue over it. He closed his eyes and focused on the feel of Bruce’s mouth on his skin, Bruce’s hands expertly unbuckling his belt and tugging open his pants, Bruce’s body pressing into his. Then he was pulling away, sliding down, and Clark opened his eyes to find Bruce on his knees in front of him, his smile distinctly predatory, like a cat with a songbird in its sights. The hands running up his thighs were gentle, though, and Bruce was moving more slowly than he usually did when they were together. Clark started and stifled a gasp when Bruce’s fingers finally brushed over his cock. The stroke was hesitant and feather-light, and he ground his teeth as Bruce freed him from the confines of his boxers.

“You really are quite a handsome man, Clark,” he murmured, tracing his length with his fingertips as if he wasn’t already familiar with every detail of Clark’s body. “People must absolutely trip over themselves to tell you anything you want to know.”

“You’d be surprised,” he grunted, trying to remember the last time Bruce had actually _said_ anything about his looks. It was there in the way he touched him, in the way he watched him, in the way he couldn’t ever seem to get enough of him, but when it came to saying the words…

The thought was banished by Bruce dipping forward and closing his mouth around Clark’s length. Clark braced himself for the immediate overload that normally took his breath away when Bruce went down on him, then relaxed in something close to disappointment when it didn’t come. Bruce sucked gently, exploring his length, the tip of his tongue running lazily along a vein as he bobbed his head. His hands were light on Clark’s waist and knee, the grip loose and cautious. Like he might change his mind. Like he could be hurt. Like Bruce didn’t know exactly what he wanted, and how he wanted it. 

_This is how Bruce would go down on someone he’d only just met,_ he realized, feeling a thrill of irrational jealousy at the thought. _This is how he’d be with someone else._

He moaned as Bruce took him in fully, then drew back just a shade too hesitant, his tongue flat and hot against the underside of his cock. He dug his fingers into the seat, careful not to tear the upholstery. It was _so close_ to being what he needed. The darting tip of Bruce’s tongue circled the head of his cock, too fast and too light over his foreskin, then too slowly over his slit. Of course Bruce was teasing him, doing just enough to keep him close and then holding back just enough to keep him from going over. Clark choked back a groan of frustration and curled his fingers in Bruce’s hair, caressing him for a moment before trying to guide him. Bruce moved his hands away firmly, then went back to sucking him.

“Please, I need more,” he panted.

Bruce seemed to consider it, then wrapped one hand around the base of Clark’s cock, stroking him quickly and firmly while he worked his glans with his lips and his tongue. Caught off-guard, Clark whimpered and bucked. His climax hit him like a lightning strike and left him spent and shaken and barely sure that it had happened. Bruce straightened his clothing coolly and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief before returning to his own seat. Clark fumbled with his slacks, suddenly clumsy and blushing and wondering exactly how heavily tinted the windows really were. He’d been too distracted to notice the limo slowing due to mid-town traffic. They’d come to a halt and were surrounded by other cars and sidewalk cafes.

“Oh, do you mind if I cut this interview short?” Bruce asked suddenly, flashing him a bright grin. “I must have gotten the files mixed up because we double-booked this time slot. _That_ ’s the reporter I’m supposed to talk to about the Foundation’s fashion show.” 

He inclined his head toward one of the cafes, where a short blonde in enormous sunglasses was looking down at her watch with an expression hovering somewhere between annoyance and resignation. Clark blinked at him, barely catching his smirk as he slipped out of the limo and loped over to the woman’s table, waving cheerily at the handful of cars that bothered honking. 

The partition behind him lowered, and he pulled his jacket closed to cover the disarray his pants were still in. The driver politely ignored his quickly reddening face--or was so inured to such scenes that they’d stopped registering--and coughed to get his attention.

“Mr. Wayne said to take you wherever you needed to go after he left for his one o’clock, Mr. Kent.”

“Back to the hotel, please,” he muttered, trying to be subtle about the fact that he was redoing his belt buckle. 

He’d just gotten snaked in an interview with one of the most vapid, artless industrialists on the east coast. Perry was going to kill him. Bruce had just beaten him handily using nothing but aggressively bad sex. Lois was probably going to be mildly sympathetic and extremely amused. 

He let his head fall back against the divider and stared at the ceiling liner. It didn’t help matters that, in spite of having just come, he was even more wound up than he’d been before Bruce had made his move. There was something deeply and unexpectedly exciting about Bruce flirting with him, complimenting him, flagrantly _baiting_ him…

He took a deep breath, dropped his notebook on his lap, and tried to ignore his rapidly-swelling cock. He was never, ever going to hear the end of this.

* * *

Clark shifted uncomfortably as he waited for Bruce to finish up in the foyer and make his way through to the kitchen. When he’d asked himself what Lois would do in this situation and arrived at this particular plan, he’d made the rookie mistake for forgetting that he didn’t quite have Lois’s nerve, Lois’s thick hide, or Lois’s ability to keep her dignity in the midst of being hauled off by security in the event that it didn’t work. The possibility that Bruce would react badly to him showing up like this clawed at him.

Muffled footsteps coming closer gave him time to compose himself, and he flipped his notebook to a blank page and clicked his pen. He took a deep breath and adjusted his glasses. Bruce paused in the doorway, his expression amused.

“I’m reasonably sure I didn’t give you the entry code to this building the last time we spoke,” Bruce said, tilting his head.

“Service entrance,” he explained with a shrug. And, he was sure, Bruce having provided the guards with his picture and informing them that he was authorized to access the penthouse. Unlike the places Lois usually bulled her way into using the same methods, this building had functional security cameras everywhere and the money to see that the CCTV terminals were watched attentively.

“Ah. Well, I suppose you’re lucky that I have a policy of never having lovely men escorted off premises if it can possibly be avoided.” He smiled and crossed to the refrigerator. Clark watched while he poured himself a drink. Two fingers of scotch--actual booze this time instead of a credible misdirect--on the rocks, and he found himself rather surprised to discover that Bruce drank anything stronger than wine.

“I suppose I can assume you’re still on the job, Mr. Kent?” he asked, tapping his glass. He seemed a shade smug rather than put out, and Clark relaxed.

He took a steadying breath. “What happened to calling me Clark?”

“You’ve assured me that the _Daily Planet_ doesn’t do puff-pieces,” Bruce answered smoothly. “And the sort of dedication to the story that leads a man to start trespassing in secure high-rises merits at least that much respect.”

“I think after this afternoon, Clark’s just fine, Mr. Wayne,” he said pointedly. 

“If you like.” Bruce shook his head and laughed. “But if you’re going to insist on Clark, I’m going to insist on Bruce.”

“I appreciate you not calling the goon squad on me.”

“Oh, they’re hardly goons. They are, in fact, very polite. But still, I imagine getting thrown out would be an unpleasant experience that I’d just as soon not put you through. This sort of journalistic perseverance ought to be rewarded, don’t you think?”

“Does that mean I can get a statement about Vendell-Smythe-Kendricks?”

Bruce chewed an ice cube thoughtfully, then lounged back against the wall. His gaze was assessing, _evaluating_ , and Clark swallowed. “It means that you can have anything you want.”

Clark stared at him, his train of thought derailed for a long moment. _Anything you want_. Bruce had just handed him a blank check. He’d lost the jacket at some point and rolled his sleeves up. The illusion that he was slighter than he was had been lost, but somehow, standing half-dressed in the ultra-modern kitchen of a penthouse fifty floors up, it was easier to picture him as what he pretended to be. Not quite--he was too sharp and too self-assured by half to be the feckless playboy that regularly made the gossip columns--but closer. It had the effect of making the mask stand out in sharper relief. It was Bruce, barefoot and easy and playing at being ordinary, giving him permission in a way that was utterly unthinkable without that artifice.

He crossed the room in the time it took to blink, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him hard. His lips were cold from the ice, and Clark thrilled at the feel of them warming against his mouth. He let his hands wander, stroking and groping and clinging, desperate for everything Bruce had teased him with in the limo but not quite delivered, everything that he was promising now. Bruce seemed to almost melt against him, and he bit back a groan. _Yes, yes, just like this, please don’t pull back, Bruce._

“Anything?” he breathed, kissing his way down Bruce’s throat.

“Was I unclear?” Bruce laughed softly. He shivered against him in the next moment when Clark’s teeth scraped gently against his shoulder.

Clark closed his eyes, his arms around Bruce’s waist and his weight resting against Bruce’s chest. Anything. He pulled back and ran his hands over Bruce’s ribs. Bruce was watching him with a sharp smile, his dark blue eyes heavy-lidded and his posture utterly relaxed. He was beautiful, utterly in his element, and giving him the reins, just this once, just for tonight. Clark slipped his fingers in between the buttons of Bruce’s shirt and tore it open, cutting off Bruce’s small gasp with a fierce kiss. Finally having bare skin under his hands was like fuel on the fire, and his cock throbbed, painfully hard.

He pulled back from the kiss just long enough to mumble, “Bedroom?”

“This way,” Bruce murmured against his lips, pushing him away and then curling his fingers around Clark’s collar. He unbuttoned the shirt carefully, his gaze challenging and reassuring in equal measures, as he led him down the hall and around a corner. 

Clark wished he’d thought to ditch his undershirt when he’d ditched his tie, then decided it didn’t matter when Bruce’s hands came to rest on his belt. He let himself be guided into the bedroom, then dragged Bruce to him again, fingers tangling in his dark hair as he kissed him hungrily. He only dropped his arms to peel off his shirt, then he had Bruce back up against the wall, one hand on the back of his neck and the other cupping his cock through his slacks.

“You want me?” he asked quietly, fumbling with Bruce’s fly. 

“God, yes.” He went still and closed his eyes when Clark’s fingers brushed over his shaft.

“You want this?” he demanded, running his hand more firmly along Bruce’s cock. His answer was a sharp nod. He kissed him, nudging his mouth open and brushing the tip of his tongue against Bruce’s. 

“I want to hear you _say_ it,” he said, emphasizing his words with a gentle squeeze that had Bruce thrusting into his fist before he caught himself.

“I want you. I want this,” he gritted, his brows furrowing in a look that bordered on pain. Clark rewarded him with a long, slow kiss and a firm stroke, and Bruce’s grip on his ass tightened, easing off just shy of what might have been painful for an ordinary human.

“Why?” he asked, ducking his head and running his tongue over the hollow of Bruce’s throat. He wondered if he could have gotten away with it in the limo, or if he’d have found himself maneuvered right back where Bruce wanted him. “You could have anyone. Why me?”

He wanted to kick himself when he heard the neediness in his own voice. Bruce shook his head.

“Part of being able to have anyone usually entails being able to have _anyone_ , doesn’t it?” he asked, his voice like silk. 

Clark felt a blush rising to his cheeks. Then Bruce was holding his face, one hand following the line of his jaw while the other ran through his hair. He gingerly removed Clark’s glasses and set them on a side table. Soft lips met his, gradually teasing them apart until he let Bruce in. Bruce pulled back after a moment and tousled his hair, his smile crooked and deceptively sincere-looking.

“Because you’re clever, and resourceful, and remarkably persistent, and utterly beautiful,” he said, dark blue eyes boring into his. “It’s a combination I happen to find immensely attractive.”

He brushed another kiss across his lips and dropped his hands to Clark’s hips, and Clark leaned against him, pressing him against the plaster. Bruce was always-- _always_ \--careful of him, but Bruce being _gentle_ with him was a dizzying experience. He closed his eyes for a second, trying to get his bearings. He wanted to work him into enough of a lather that he dropped the mask, stopped pretending, stopped handling him like he could be hurt at the same time that he wanted him to keep saying the things he’d only say with it providing cover. He sucked a bruise onto Bruce’s shoulder, the same mark he’d left the first time they’d kissed, and chuckled when Bruce’s fingers tightened, digging into his skin.

“You’re trying to charm me,” he accused.

“Is it working?” Bruce asked, tugging off the belt Clark hadn’t noticed him undoing.

“Of course not. I’m a profess--” The rest of his statement was lost in a whimper when Bruce slipped his hand inside his pants.

“Mmm.” Bruce kissed him, more forcefully this time. “I have to say, Clark, if _that_ had been on your business card, I definitely wouldn’t have mixed up those briefings.”

“Be nice,” Clark scolded, .

Bruce shot him an infuriating smile and rubbed his thumb over Clark’s slit, making his knees buckle slightly. “And here I thought I was being nice.”

Clark groaned and closed his hand over Bruce’s, guiding him, pressing him back, drinking him in. He was warm and yielding, and the quicksilver flash in his eyes that told him it was all a game transfigured that malleability from something unsettling and wrong into exactly what he needed. He carded his fingers through Bruce’s hair and kissed him hard, his other hand pumping and twisting more roughly than Bruce ever had been--probably ever would be--on his own. The feel of Bruce’s hand on his cock, giving him just what he needed, just what he wanted, sent him crashing through a climax, and he moaned into Bruce’s mouth as he came.

He didn’t realize that he was trembling until Bruce’s hand was between his shoulder blades, rubbing slowly, and his voice was in his ear.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he soothed. “You’re all right.”

“I feel like…” He stopped himself, unsure of how to finish. He felt like he was drowning, like he was falling, like they could stay like this forever and it still wouldn’t be enough. He shook his head, realizing that there wasn’t a way to say it that wouldn’t make Bruce shut down.

“What?” Bruce prompted, a knife-edge of concern in his voice. 

Clark pulled away, his eyes raking over the man in front of him. He was hard and flushed and mussed and practically begging to be taken; the only thing ruining the picture was the too-keen, wary gaze fixed on him instead of the expected pout.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, catching the open front of Bruce’s shirt and dragging him into a kiss.

“Clark--” His tone was harder, sharper, and Clark shook his head again, more firmly this time.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he whispered, steering him toward the bed. He pushed him down, running his hands up Bruce’s sides, ignoring the scars. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

He stayed put while Clark stripped off his undershirt and kicked off his shoes. There was a coiled watchfulness in his frame, though, and Clark suppressed a sigh. He still didn’t know how someone who could face down mortal peril and impossible odds without blinking could still be too cautious by half when it came to things like this. Bruce tensed a little more at the slight delay, and he gave up. He might not know how to make him understand that he wasn’t fragile, but he definitely knew how to give him better things to worry about. He fixed Bruce with a demanding look and stretched out above him, hemming him in and sucking at his throat. Bruce arched against him when his fingers found his neglected cock, his strokes quick and light and meant to tease.

“I want to see what you look like when you come,” he said, not budging when Bruce squirmed under him, trying to get more friction.

“Is that so?” Bruce asked, a smirk starting to creep back across his face. “You’re going to have to do better than this, then.”

He grunted when Clark rolled off him.

“I think they might have a somewhat different definition of ‘better’ in Oklahoma than they do on the east coast,” he muttered.

Clark stripped the rest of the way and climbed back on top of him. 

“Kansas.” Bruce arched an eyebrow. “I’m from Kansas.”

“Of course you are,” he sighed, reaching up to cup Clark’s ass.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing at all.” Bruce shot him an unreadable grin, and Clark rolled his eyes.

“Condoms?” he asked.

“Bottom drawer,” he purred, levering himself up to nip at Clark’s collarbone. “But I don’t think we’ll be needing any tonight.” He took Clark’s hand and guided it to his leaking cock. “First date, after all.”

Clark closed his eyes and rubbed the pad of his thumb over Bruce’s foreskin, just enough to make his hips jerk. The idea of not getting to fuck him tonight was like a bucket of ice water.

“You went down on me in the back of a limo just this morning,” he pointed out.

“I vaguely recall doing something along those lines,” Bruce gritted, thrusting against his hand. Clark deliberately loosened his grip and ran his tongue over the delicate skin just behind his ear.

“That would make this the second date, then, right?”

“I suppose an argument could be made to that effect,” he said, panting slightly.

“Please,” he murmured, stroking a little harder and feeling a sliver of victory at Bruce’s fingers digging into his flesh. “You have no idea how much I want you inside me right now.”

Bruce’s eyes darkened and his breath came noticeably faster, and Clark smothered a triumphant grin.

“You’re practically a moral hazard with a byline, aren’t you?” Bruce breathed, trying to pull him closer.

“Journalism’s a tough business,” he countered, rooting through the drawer. “You have to be willing to go after what you want if you’re going to get anywhere.”

Bruce shifted under him, starting to shrug out of his shirt. Clark put a hand on his chest and pushed him back down.

“I like you like this,” he explained.

“Half-dressed?” Bruce asked, tilting his head.

“Half-undressed,” Clark corrected, tugging his slacks farther open. “It’s a good look for you.”

Bruce’s retort was lost in a sharp gasp when Clark rolled the condom over his cock in one smooth motion. He palmed a dollop of lube, waiting a moment for it to warm against his skin before spreading it over his fingers and pumping his fist along Bruce’s shaft. He bucked against him, his face a mask of need until Clark straddled him and started to rock back onto him.

“I don’t know if you’ve ever done this before, but you’re going to need a little--”

“Already taken care of,” he said.

“I’m not sure if that counts as confidence or arrogance,” Bruce said, unable to disguise the lust in his voice. 

Clark sank down, relaxing and letting Bruce’s cock slide into him, opening and filling him. Anything else he might have said was lost to a soft hiss as Clark took him in completely. Clark flexed and shifted position, the fabric of Bruce’s slacks rustling against his thighs, and leaned over him. Bruce tensed, and his hands locked onto Clark’s hips.

“Tell me what you want,” he said gruffly, bracing his palms against the mattress on either side of Bruce’s head.

“You,” Bruce grunted. “Just you.”

“Like this?” he demanded, rocking against him. 

Bruce grimaced and closed his eyes, desire written in the lines of his face. “However you want.”

He increased his pace, balancing his need for friction and speed against his need to have Bruce completely undone. He varied his technique, slowing when Bruce seemed close to coming and returning to his preferred rhythm when he started frustrating himself as well. It wasn’t long before Bruce was panting in earnest and twisting under him, and he could feel his own orgasm building, his cock hard and leaking against his belly. Clark leaned forward and put more force into his thrusts to make up for the reduced range of movement, gritting his teeth when Bruce’s cock brushed his prostate, resisting the urge to lose himself. He groaned when Bruce tilted his hips slightly in an attempt to get a better angle and push him over the edge. _Not quite yet._

Clark kissed him gently, then twisted his fingers in his hair and pulled, forcing his head back and baring his throat. 

“You’re fucking loving this, aren’t you?” he demanded, his lips moving against Bruce’s earlobe. The hands around his hips tightened. “Say it.”

“Yes,” he gasped after another moment.

Bruce made a sound that was almost a whimper when he ground down against him and tightened around him. Clark’s cock ached at the small thrusts he managed, and he needed just a little more time, just a little more self-control. _It’s just a game._

“You want to come?” He pulled just a little farther and nipped Bruce’s neck, making him shiver. “Tell me you love me.”

It was definitely a whimper this time, and he bit his lip with the effort it took not to come just from the sound of it. 

“ _Say it_ ,” he growled.

“I love you,” he hissed.

Clark smiled into his shoulder, his skin tingling with want, for a long heartbeat before he kissed him desperately and began fucking him in earnest. He gasped when he finally let Bruce get the angle he’d been trying for, his vision going white for what seemed like an eternity when he spilled across Bruce’s stomach. Bruce grunted and quirmed under him, and he tightened his grip and rutted against him while he came. He didn’t pull off until Bruce was trembling and spent, breaking away reluctantly. Bruce tossed the condom into a wastebasket and snorted before catching him by an arm. He guided him back until he could curl against him. 

“And just where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his voice rough.

Clark froze, his breath caught in his throat. “I, uh, that is…”

“I didn’t figure you for the hit-and-run type.” Bruce stretched languidly, his lips twitching up in the ghost of a smile. “Especially after that little _performance_.”

Clark flushed and tried to formulate a response. He was never, ever, _ever_ going to hear the end of this.

“Of course, if you’ve got somewhere to be, I suppose I shouldn’t keep you.” He pouted slightly and traced Clark’s ribs with his nails, leaving his skin burning where he’d touched him. 

Clark swallowed hard. _It’s a game, the rules are different,_ he told himself. _He wouldn’t be holding me like this if it weren’t_.

He wrapped his hands in Bruce’s shirt, dragged him closer, and kissed him deeply. “You look like a work of art when you come.” 

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” he laughed, kissing him back. He glanced at the clock and then dropped his voice, his tone almost shy. “You can stay the night, if you like.”

Clark settled against him and enjoyed just being held until the sweat had cooled on his skin.

“What the hell did we just spend the day doing?” he asked eventually, trying to put more confidence in his voice than he felt.

“There’s only so long an inveterate playboy can be expected to behave like a monk,” Bruce murmured, his lips brushing Clark’s shoulder. “Especially when the world sees fit to dangle a clean-cut, clear-eyed, all-American crusader right in front of him.”

“And you couldn’t resist?” Clark scoffed. “Confronted with temptation, you just lost control?”

Bruce shook his head. 

“I couldn’t resist the temptation to make _him_ lose control,” he corrected, running his hand over the curve of Clark’s hip.

“You keep doing that, and we’re going to be right back to square one,” he warned.

“I could think of worse places to wind up,” Bruce sighed, his tone content.

“So could I, but you need at least a few hours of sleep if you’re going to be on duty tomorrow morning.” He could practically feel Bruce rolling his eyes behind him, but he didn’t argue the point. 

Clark pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist and laced their fingers together. After a few moments, he heard Bruce’s heart rate and breath begin to slip into the pattern that signaled meditation. He waited until they were steady to let his mind wander. Bruce was warm and solid against his back. Bruce was holding him. Bruce had all but confessed that he’d hadn’t been seeing other people. Bruce had said he loved him. If it took a bit of role-play to get there, he could live with it.

* * *

Lois frowned as she flipped through the manuscript, her eyes narrowing at the red marks she’d left on her earlier read-throughs.

“You seem a little disappointed that it’s more or less okay,” Clark said diffidently, his brows furrowing.

She glared at him. “I am not disappointed. I’m just...leery.”

“It’s Jimmy’s B-roll, Lois,” he sighed.

“I know. And this could be a big break for him. _But_ he’s just starting his career, _and_ this reporter is a clown, _and_ Jimmy doesn’t have much of a reputation to fall back on if this guy’s screw-ups slop over onto him. I just want to be sure he’s not going to regret licensing his photos for this book.”

“And you’ve already come to the conclusion that he probably won’t.”

“And it doesn’t hurt to triple-check before I recommend that he do this. I’d be a bad mentor if I wasn’t extra-careful about stuff like this, Clark. He hasn’t built up enough experience to be able to rely on just his own judgment about publishing deals yet.”

“If there’s one thing you’re incapable of being, it’s a bad mentor,” he chided. She scoffed and tossed the draft onto the table.

“Okay, Clark, spill it.” 

He looked up from painting her toenails, cobalt blue eyes innocent. “I would never, Lois. I know how hard it is to get nail polish out of canvas.”

She made a face at him and nudged his knee with her free foot. “Gotham. Talk, dark, and rich. The interview you somehow both got and didn’t get, and now Perry’s going to assign you to the Nome bureau that the _Planet_ doesn’t have. The elephant in the room you’ve been ignoring for the last two days. The assignment that I encouraged you to take, in spite of having certain reservations given the subject.”

He blew on the nails he’d just painted, his breath cold enough to raise gooseflesh on her calves. She shivered and let her knees fall open slightly farther than necessary, giving him a glimpse of her upper thighs and the underwear she definitely wasn’t wearing.

“Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell,” he teased.

“Gentlemen don’t sneak peeks up ladies’ skirts,” she retorted, crossing her arms. He lifted her foot and kissed her ankle, and she chewed her lip, trying not to smile. She gave up when he started kissing his way up her shin. “You seriously think you’re going to throw me off the trail by distracting me with sex?”

“I’ve been reliably informed that I’m an immensely attractive man, and that my reporterly persistence should be rewarded,” he chuckled.

“Oh my god, he _didn’t_.”

“He did.” He brushed his lips along the inside of her knee. “I did get the interview, but it was all off-record, and mostly it was about how the scandal wouldn’t involve anybody’s, uh, _sideline activities_.”

“So completely unprintable,” she huffed. “I hope the sex was worth getting shipped to Alaska over.”

He gave her a lopsided grin and shrugged a little.

“Oh, that is _it_. Come here.” She tugged on his shirt, guiding him up and kissing him.

“Mmm. What now?”

“I’m re-staking my claim.” She kissed him, pulled his shirt off, and kissed him again. “Marking my territory.”

“I see.” He brushed her hair over her shoulder and kissed her neck. “You know I’m still not giving you the details, right?”

“I’ve got ways of making you talk, Mr. Kent,” she laughed, glancing over his shoulder. She stopped and tapped his arm. “Oh, hell.”

“What? What is it? Oh.” His face fell when he saw the chyron crawling across the bottom of the screen.

“Pretty sure that’s your cue, Immensely-Attractive-Man,” she sighed.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised, disentangling himself and getting to his feet.

“Just come home safe,” she said firmly, shooing him out. He gave her a warm, brief look before he changed into his uniform and bolted from the balcony.

“Boys,” she muttered to herself.


End file.
